Owen blinked. “Say what?”
“Raising Satan would require people.” At their continued blank expressions, he elaborated. “Human sacrifice.”
“Deb did think someone was gearing up to be a serial killer,” Becca said. “I just thought she’d read too much Tami Hoag.”
“I’m not following.”
“Serial killers usually start with animals. I never considered someone was practicing. I didn’t like to consider what was going on here at all.”
“Witches. Serial killers. Satanists. Sacrifice.” Owen threw up his hands. “How do you know all this stuff?”
“It’s my job.” Reitman straightened as if the stick had suddenly been jabbed in farther. “Also a hobby and a calling and a birthright.”
“How is being a forensic veterinarian a birthright?”
“It isn’t. Being a witch is.”
Owen laughed. Reitman didn’t. Owen glanced at Becca. “Did you know that he thinks he’s a witch?”
“I am a witch. My mother was one too.”
People had called Owen’s mother a witch. Sometimes, when she was really, really high, or off her meds, or both, she believed it. Once she’d used their broom to try and fly off the roof.
Becca set her hand on his arm. She remembered too. They’d been eight, playing at the creek, building a mud castle. The screaming had brought them back to the house. Becca had run to her parents and gotten help. Owen had stayed here and tried to keep his mother from walking on a compound fracture.
That wasn’t the first time Owen had spent a few weeks in foster care. But it was the last. After that, when his mom went away, Owen stayed at the Carstairs’ place.
“Are there a lot of witches in Wisconsin?” Owen asked.
Becca coughed, then cleared her throat, which meant she was smothering a laugh. Witches in Wisconsin was kind of funny.
“What’s a lot?” Reitman asked.
“Two,” Owen muttered.
“Then, yes. I belong to a coven in Madison. There’s one in Eau Claire. There might be another hereabouts. I’m not sure.”
“How can you not be sure?”
“We don’t advertise in the Yellow Pages or have a Web site. That’s just asking for trouble.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“You think there’s discrimination against minorities? Try being a witch.”
“No, thank you,” Owen murmured. “If there isn’t a way to find a coven, how do covens get found?”
“Wiccan shops. Word of mouth. I’d ask my high priestess if there was a coven this far north, but…” Reitman’s gaze went back to the animals. “She was murdered last week.”
“How?” Owen blurted.
“Arm hacked off. She was—”
Something creaked upstairs, and they lifted their eyes to the ceiling. The creak continued down the staircase with the measured beat of steps.
“George?” Owen called.
The creaking stopped.
“What the heck was he doing up there?” Owen asked no one in particular.
“What was who doing up where?” George walked through the front door.
“If you’re here then who—”
A figure flew out of the shadows. Long, tangled hair obscured the face. A sacklike, tan jumpsuit shrouded the body. The sunlight through the open front door glinted off a knife.
“Bringen,” Owen said, but Reggie wasn’t there.
“Die,” the apparition shouted, and rushed into the living room.
Owen dived for Becca.
“You witch, huh—”
George plowed into the intruder, cutting off the rest, managing to grasp the descending forearm before the knife plunged into Reitman’s chest.
Becca and Owen crashed to the ground. The knife clattered to the floor. The subsequent thuds and grunts, followed by the jingle then snap of handcuffs, told Owen that George had subdued the attacker.
Beneath Owen, Becca caught her breath. Was there more than one psycho with a knife? Considering what had been going on here lately, why wouldn’t there be?
Owen turned his head. Nope, only one psycho with a knife.
“Hi, Mom,” he said.
Chapter 14
Owen hadn’t seen his mother since he’d left on his previous tour. He probably should have felt worse about that. Except the last time he’d seen her, she hadn’t remembered who he was.
He’d told himself it didn’t matter. As long as he was paying for her care, reading whatever they sent him to read, and returning any phone calls made to him about her, then he was doing his duty.
It wasn’t true, but out of sight was out of mind. And Afghanistan was just about far away enough for him to forget for maybe a day at a time that his mother was cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs.
“You told me they weren’t ever going to let her out.” Becca pushed at his chest, making Owen realize he still shielded her from the rest of the room.